


A New Risk: Level One, Trust

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Michelle [2]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Birthday, Dancing, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Tom's birthday, and the cast of his latest movie is throwing him a party doing what he loves best -- dancing. Michelle is invited as his date. Sounds simple. With Tom, nothing ever is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Risk: Level One, Trust

I hated it when Tom came over to my apartment.

Not that I didn't want to see him. We'd only been dating a little more than a month, and the shine still hadn't worn off. I wanted to spend every second I could with him. But in my apartment?

I'm not a neat person.

When we first got together, it was clear to me right away that going out was not going to be an easy thing. Tom was less bent out of shape about it than I was, he had been out on many dates and had gotten good at avoiding the paparazzi. He had a strong publicity department. So he wasn't worried like I was.

But I did not want the exposure. I'd seen the following he had online and I didn't want to be "that bitch who stole Tom Hiddleston."

Even if I wanted to actually be that bitch that stole Tom Hiddleston. I just didn't want them to hate me for it.

So it was clear from early on that if we were going to see each other, we had to either meet at his temporary apartment (flat in British-eeze) or mine. Going to his place was okay, but it was unfair to put it all on him. We had to share.

I paid over a hundred dollars for a cleaning person to come in and clean my apartment. It hadn't been clean in...I don't know how long.

It's not like I didn't have the time. I usually spent seven days on, six days off. That was the life as a medical technologist at a hospital. Early mornings and twelve hour shifts for seven days, but then I got to sleep. And I HATED cleaning.

But for Tom, I mustered.

Stuff was packed up and put into storage. My bedroom was the only room I allowed to be a junkpile -- the living room was meticulously tidied, the bathroom scrubbed, the kitchen polished. The cleaning woman did the hardest work, but I had to organize the crap I let collect.

NOT an easy task.

We spent easy evenings together, mostly talking. We'd watch a movie, half the time get sidetracked talking, the other half be able to wait until the movie was over to begin talking. Talking to Tom was one of the best things I could imagine. He was so full of ideas and life and took an interest in so many things and was so curious about other things, we never ran out of conversation, even if we were just babbling about stupid things. But, I realized, this was just the first month. This was probably normal -- I had no real idea, I'd never been in a relationship before.

Kinda sad for thirty-three year old. But I'd never liked anyone like I liked Tom.

He was very physical. This took some getting used to. He was always touching me in some way, but it wasn't sexual. He hugged all the time. All. The. Time. When he greeted me, when he left, and randomly, when we were in the kitchen and I either showed him some particular consideration, or he decided to just be affectionate and pin me against the counter. He was always complimenting me, and I had to learn to take it -- and start to give it. My usually sarcastic sense of humor mixed with my blunt way of stating the truth made this a bit difficult. With Tom, it was easier than I thought it would be.

It was hard not to give in to that image of perfection he seemed to radiate. The Tom I'd known before had been unsure, but sweet and gentle. He showed interest in everyone, and had impeccable manners. Whenever he was conflicted about what to do, he always fell back on what was polite. I noticed him doing it with me, just like he had before. Before, I had teased him, told him to loosen up. This time, I decided to let him -- manners were a rare thing these days, and I didn't want to discourage or belittle someone with good ones. And in return, it seemed to encourage me to up my game, be more considerate.

This, coupled with the fact that I couldn't stop smiling all the fucking time -- I had to be getting on everyone's nerves.

So knowing his birthday was a week away, I had to figure something out. I knew how short our time had been, but birthdays were important, and I wanted to make an effort. I suspected, however, that he would have plans, so I didn't plan anything on the birthday itself. I figured I could cook him a meal at my place and make a cake. I was a good cook, even if I hated doing the dishes afterwards.

As for his actual birthday night, I figured the cast of his current film would throw him a party. He was filming the new Thor movie, the third one, Ragnarok, and I half expected him to have dark hair the second time we got together. He showed up a bit trim, but still dark blond. The wigs were getting better, he said, and they didn't even need his hairline anymore. Hemsworth had it easier, being naturally blond -- I hadn't met him yet, and didn't quite anticipate it ever happening. It was fine, I wanted to be separated from all of that. He was tight with his Marvel castmates, and if they were throwing him a party, I wanted him to attend guilt free. I didn't want to be clingy.

He was so considerate, letting me know in advance of his days off so we could plan. I return I told him my days off, an exchange of sorts. When he worked, he would text when he could, if he couldn't call for quick five or ten minute conversations while he relaxed in his trailer. There was a considerable amount of waiting around when it came to filming, waiting for people to set this up or reset that piece, and there would be gaps where the actors could catch a nap. If it was my day off and he was working, he would call for as long as he could. If it was his day off and I was working, I would find three or four text messages on my phone when I would check it during my break -- I wasn't allowed to have my phone on me while I was working, hospital regulations. But there would always be something waiting, and I would text him back as much as I could before I went back to work.

The weekend before his birthday I started my six days off. The first night, I made a casserole out of chicken, bacon, and avocado, with cheese and layers of crescent dough from Pillsbury. I knew my shortcuts. Wine and a chocolate cake completed the picture, and he was thrilled when he saw it. 

More hugs. More kissing.

"How does it feel to be thirty-five?" I teased.

"I still have three more days to go," he insisted, "but if this is any indication, I think it's going to feel great."

We were finished with dinner and chatting over the remaining wine and cake when he started to sweat. I saw it in the way he kept rubbing his hands on his thighs, scratching his neck. The habits that drove women nuts were, to my observation, usually nervous habits. Whenever he was deep in thought, he would rub his lips with his finger, and when he was really tense, he would start to pick at the hairs of his goatee, plucking at them one by one. I wondered what he did when he was clean shaven -- I hadn't seen him in that look much, but I knew he had to have it for Loki, who always had a smooth chin. But on his days off, he didn't shave, and he always had scruff. Which I adored.

"So in three days, I officially turn thirty-five," he mused, emptying the wine bottle between our glasses.

"I'm sure you've got a party going on for you somewhere," I commented.

He looked bashful. And hesitant. "As a matter of fact, yes, and I wanted to talk to you about it."

"Oh, Tom, don't worry about it, it's your birthday! You deserve to go out and have some fun with your friends!"

He looked at me, and then blinked a few times. He seemed to be registering something. "Oh...oh! You think..." he motioned with his fingers, then he held up his hand, palm out. "Oh, no, darling!" and he laughed that sweet laugh. "No, that isn't what I meant. I mean, yes, I have been invited to a party. At this club in L.A., I think Chris set it up. He knows how much I love to dance. Of course it was probably Elsa who planned it, Chris is rubbish at that sort of thing. But I wasn't trying to let you down -- I was...I was going to invite you."

It was my turn to blink.

"As my date," he clarified.

I set my glass down, slowly. I wasn't sure he understood what he was asking. Me, going as his date, in front of all his friends, in a public place, where there would be people with cell phones to get pictures of Tom Hiddleston and his date. 

"Are you...are you sure you want to do that?" I asked. 

He seemed unruffled by my questions. "Yes," he replied.

"But...I mean, we've been keeping this quiet. It's only been a month...are you sure you want to do that?"

Tom shrugged. "Why not? I'm serious about you, I think I've made that clear from the beginning. And I thought you were serious about me. Am I wrong?"

I didn't want to tell him that yes, I knew he was serious, and yes, I was serious, but that ultimately I was waiting for him to disappear from my life the second he left my city at the end of February. It was a discussion for another time. 

"No, you're not wrong," I said, folding my hands on my lap. "I just...are we ready for this? I mean, it's still new and delicate and I don't want to dump a punch of pressure on it from publicity."

"I'm not worried about that," Tom said. "Paparazzi aren't going to be allowed--"

"But the other people will recognize you, Tom. And they'll get pictures of you, and then pictures of you with me, and it's Jane Arthy all over again."

Tom's face darkened a bit, and he looked away. Jane Arthy was a bit of a sore spot with him. All the rampant speculation, and silence from his camp. He was pretty sure that was what had wrecked the relationship before it could get off the ground. His chin lowered, his eyes on his hands, which fiddled in his lap.

"I don't want to hide, Michelle," he said, then raised his eyes to me, his expression very serious. "I want to have a life like a normal person."

"Tom, you have to understand, as much as the real you is as normal as anyone else, the image of you isn't," I explained carefully. 

He sighed, shook his head.

I reached across the table, extending my hand. It was a risk -- I didn't like putting myself out there, having been rejected so often. But Tom saw it quickly, put his own hand in it. 

"It's not that I'm not proud to be with you, far from it," I said. "I just...I don't want the attention, can you understand that? I mean, I like being private. I know you like being private. Your friend Ben didn't bring Sophie out until he was ready to marry her -- and no, that wasn't a hint," I added quickly when the corner of his mouth quirked. 

"There is a difference between hiding and being private," he explained. 

"In your world, not much of a difference," I argued, but I squeezed his fingers gently. 

"Look," he said, sliding his other hand under mine, sandwiching it between his. "I want you to come to the club for my birthday. I want to spend the time with you." He looked away, thinking. "Maybe if we show up as a group," he said, getting an idea. "The Hemsworths, you and me, and you can invite someone else. Maybe...maybe Monica! It would make sense, since she invited me to her New Years party. And then, once we're inside, who cares what anyone sees? Tom likes to dance, he can dance with whoever he wants. And then it will still be private. It won't come across as you being my date. Even though you will be," he stressed, pressing my hand.

I chuckled. "Okay, you want to call Monica or should I?"

\---------------------------

It went as he said it would. On the night of his birthday, a limo pulled up outside my apartment, and Tom, dressed in a waist coat, tie, and a white shirt that fit him very closely, with short, pressed sleeves that accentuated his long, perfect arms, rang my doorbell.

Monica had eagerly agreed to come to the party, especially once she found out my conundrum. She wasn't a petulant person who would have pouted at the reasons she was being invited -- it was pretty much a celebrity event, after all, and she was thrilled no matter the circumstances. 

Of course, I had nothing to wear. Absolutely nothing.

Monica took me shopping. We found a cute little black dress, perfect for every occasion. It fit me very well, hiding my lumps and showing off the curves of my hips. Of course, it also clung to my breasts, exposing far too much cleavage for my comfort. Her solution was to safety pin the overlapping fabric higher over my breasts. It looked natural, and if for some reason I lost my mind and wanted everyone to see what God had given me, I could always unpin it. 

Tom's eyes scanned me appreciatively. I knew what the word "eyefuck" meant when he did, and blushed. "I take it you approve," I teased.

"Absolutely," he said, drawing me into his arms. One arm around my waist, tucking me in so the other could wrap around. His signature style. 

"Don't wrinkle me," I pouted. 

"Hmmm...." Now his eyes were on my lips, which I'd just freshly painted. 

"Or smear me," I continued. 

"You'll just have to reapply." And he kissed me. A bit harder than he usually did, and definitely much longer, and yes, I had to reapply. 

"So who else do we have to pick up?" I asked. 

"You were the last stop," Tom said, watching me smooth the raspberry lipstick across my lips. 

"Oh." So that meant everyone was in the limo. As much as Tom liked making an entrance, I didn't. But I gathered myself and said a little prayer -- this was Tom's birthday. I would just suck it up and deal. 

"Here," Tom said, his thumb brushing just under my bottom lip. A tiny smudge of pink came away on the pad. "Perfect," he said, his face close to mine.

"Mmm," I frowned, playfully. "Enough now, or we'll be doing this all night."

"I can tell them to go without me--no, I can't do that," he amended quickly, and I gave him a very vigorous nod.

"You think I'm going to miss the opportunity to meet Chris Hemsworth?" I teased. 

Tom scowled. We'd had this conversation. I hadn't even recognized him, honestly, the first time I'd watched Thor. Sure, he looked familiar, and by the end of the film, which he was in much more than the beginning, I was sure I knew him. I watched the credits and my jaw dropped in horror when I saw his name. Black hair, white make-up and a big-ass pair of horns had hidden him nearly completely. Plus I'd never seen him angry or heard him yell in the months I knew him. So it was a bit of a shock. 

Of course, I came out the movie Team Thor. Hemsworth was a bit bulky for my type but how I dug that accent! Upon learning all this, Tom made sure I knew that Hemsworth was very happily married.

"Don't be jealous," I sighed, stroking his cheek. "You put lines on that pretty forehead when you get jealous."

Hemsworth and his beautiful wife Elsa were just as sweet and perfect as I had imagined. Tom did not let go of my hand, even as I leaned away to talk to Monica, who was dazzling in a light blue minidress that accented her dark, shoulder length curls and pale green eyes, until the limo pulled up to the club. 

I uncurled my fingers from around him, but he was reluctant to let go. I winked at him, smiled and puckered my lips into a little blown kiss before the door was opened and it was time. 

It wasn't a red carpet event, but there was a line of people outside the club that knew celebrities when they saw them. Chris and Elsa went first, but there must have been Hiddlestoners in that line because several of the girls called out, "Happy Birthday Tom!" as we walked past. Tom had one arm around Monica's shoulders and the other around mine, and I kept having to step away from him, either instinct dragging me closer or his grip. I blushed furiously as phones flashed at us, lowering my face and letting my hair shield me. I tried to look out in the street as much as possible, letting Tom be the man and show me the way. 

It was easier once we were inside, but not by much.

I was never a big club person. They were so damn loud! The kind of loud that fills your ears and thrums in your skull that it feels like a physical force. It ebbed a bit as we were shown to a more private area, a small sitting area a floor above the dance floor, looking down into it. The sitting area led to another one behind it, this one away from the crowd, with a lot more privacy. It even had its own bathroom.

Tom slid his arm from Monica, but did not lower his hand from me. Everyone was eager to greet him, and Tom, being a big hugger, did a lot of hugging. I tried to slip out so he could use both hands, and while this would work from hug to hug, in between he would grab my hand again and pull me along, introducing me to just about everybody. 

There were couches, lots of places to sit. We had two waitresses, and the first round of drinks was right behind us. Tom was a Jameson drinker, but I liked sweet, girly drinks. To my surprise, a Midori sour was next to Tom's Jameson, and he handed it to me with a grin.

The first hour passed easily. Sitting around getting the birthday wishes. Even at the New Years party, Tom had been like this, making the rounds, even to people he didn't know who looked at him with wide, astonished eyes that a celebrity was in their presence. He kept hold of my hand, or alternated it to my waist. Although he seemed to like to let it glide along the fabric of my dress over the curve of my hip -- or my ass.

I swatted his hand twice. It took the second one to get the message. I didn't care about my hip, but the ass implied things I wasn't ready for. 

Then came the dancing.

To say that I liked to dance wouldn't have been an absolutely lie. I was just a self-conscious person, particularly about my body. And the kind of dancing going on downstairs was the hip-rocking, butt-thrusting, boob-wiggling kind that I wasn't precisely comfortable doing in front of God and everybody. The bump-and-grind, in my personal opinion, was lewd.

But Tom.

To say Tom loved to dance was an understatement.

Tom adored it. 

And I couldn't miss it. So of course I let him drag me along, and I was very pleased to see a few bouncers follow us, to make sure he could do so without getting molested by the other patrons. 

I didn't go with him alone. I dragged Monica, and somehow we got at least two other women to go with us. They were very sweet, working in the hair and make-up department, all tricked out for an exciting evening. As we were going down, I caught sight of another cast member who had shown up fashionably late -- Zachary Levi. As they were nearly as good of friends as Tom and Chris, huge bear hugs were exchanged, and Tom looked around frantically, looking for what I wasn't sure. Until I was dragged by the trio past him, and he made a reach for me.

He missed.

I gave him an apologetic look as I was carted down to the dance floor. One bouncer stayed with Tom, the other went with us as we found a corner. It didn't take long for Tom and Zach to catch up with us. Zach was nearly as avid a dancer as Tom, and with his adorable wife along, they were set to party.

A hasty introduction was made on the dance floor, and Zachary kissed my cheek. I hugged both him and his wife, but once the music caught hold it was off to the races.

It lasted for a good hour. My endurance was higher than it had been, but I still was drenched with sweat. Tom stayed close but the way that man took up space it was hard to stay close to him for too long. He would occasionally grab me and swing or spin but I didn't want to get caught in the gravity of those hips, so I would put the space between us again at the first opportunity.

They say Baptists don't allow dancing. This kind of dancing, I could understand why.

The cluster we made grew. Hemsworth with his wife, Zachary with his, various mixed couples. The music slowed and Tom immediately had me in his arms. As nice as it was to slow down, and as much as I enjoyed being this close without risk of bodily injury, I was very aware of the eyes on us.

Two dances later and I begged an excuse for water. He offered to go with, but I grabbed Monica who had just lost her partner to another, and made a quick exchange. 

Back in the room, I collapsed onto a couch. The bottle of water was gone in a few minutes and I started on another. 

And that was when I heard them. 

"....pig," was the first word I heard. They were outside, in the little area just above the floor, but close to the door. "Can't believe...her."

"I know!" came the other voice. Obviously women. Both of them. "What is it? He bored fucking supermodels?"

My cheeks started to flame. No, I didn't hear my name. No, I didn't hear Tom's. I knew I was assuming. I knew it. I knew they didn't have to be talking about me. They could be talking about Zach and his wife, Chris and his...but no, in my head, the paranoia that they were talking about me instantly became the truth.

I got up and went to the bathroom. 

The light told me everything I wish it hadn't.

I tried to remember I'd been dancing for an hour, that's why my hair was a mussed wreck and my make-up was smeared and my lipstick was gone. My fingers fumbled with my purse so I could reapply it, but it just wasn't happening.

And then my hands went to the safety pins. 

It'd show them why Tom was with me. 

When I had first tried on the dress, I had been stunned. And then I'd laughed.

"Monica," I told her, stepping into her view, "if I wore this in public, they'd think I was on the prowl. And they'd be on me. Like flies on shit."

Monica slowly managed to un-widen her eyes and close her jaw. "They would. But we can do something about that."

I wasn't in the mood for those safety pins anymore.

The fabric of the dress clung perfectly to my breasts. The bra I'd picked, white and lacy, almost peeked into view, but the material saw to it that it stayed in place on its own. Now it wasn't just my top cleavage that was showing. The middle was very plainly visible. 

Why the fuck had I ever pinned it to begin with?

I smoothed down my hair with the small brush I kept in the purse, and used a moist paper towel to tidy my make-up. Confident that I looked better going out than I did going on, I stepped from the washroom and made my way out the door, heading back down to the dance floor. 

Whoever had been talking at the railing was gone now. I paused where they'd been standing and looked at who was in my range. Tom was down there, of course. Monica wasn't with him -- but that didn't mean he was alone. Somehow he'd gotten separated from the two married couples, and was mildly surrounded by a half-circle of very attractive club crawlers.

Of course the bouncer had let them through. They were the women that populated these places, made the guys come in and buy drinks and spend money. Of course they would want Tom. Who could blame them? I certainly couldn't. And who could blame Tom for giving them that million-watt smile that I knew wasn't only mine, that tossing his head of curls and spraying them with his sweat and giggling as they giggled and aw-shucked as they fawned. 

It was his birthday. I was not going to be a jealous girlfriend and do something possessive to embarrass him.

As I turned, someone was standing front of me. I didn't quite recognize him, he looked familiar, one of the minor characters on the set, definitely an actor. 

And oh, hell, he'd seen my rack. Well, it wasn't like I wasn't showing it.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, leaning forward, barely keeping his eyes from dipping down.

I nodded. 

Not being that important, the bouncers didn't bother much with us. I recognized a few of the women we'd come down with to begin, and smiled and waved at them, and then like a hero swooping in, Monica was there, grabbing my hand.

"Thank God," she muttered, "this place is worse than the orangutan cage at the zoo!"

"Dance with us," I said, and she did. We were joined by a few more, men and women both, and I know I got too close to the actor who had originally asked me because I felt his hand brush where it shouldn't, and got my distance the second I did. 

Then a hand reached around. Grabbed me hard around the waist and pulled me back against a body that shouldn't have felt as familiar as it did.

Tom. 

"Having fun?" he asked, and it was a bit plain to me he'd had more than a few shots of something in the time I'd been gone. How long had I hid in that bathroom?

"Of course," I replied. God, his breath was strong! But they were, no doubt, getting shots for the birthday boy, so of course I should have expected this. 

The hand that was holding me was joined by the other. Only the other didn't stop at the waist. It slid right up. Those fingers, their span so wide, I had been tempted to ask him to let me measure it -- those fingers that I had imagined, in weaker moments, wondering if they'd be able to hold certain parts of me or if I'd spill over--

Those fingers were cupping my breast. His thumb slid along the curve and dipped into my cleavage, the sweat making everything slick. It was gentle, but no one had ever dared touch me like this before. In surprise, I let out a yelp.

Not that anyone heard it.

Instantly, my hand was on his, digging under his fingers. I wrenched them off, twisting them in the rage that was crawling up my neck. I turned, but his other hand on my waist was firm, and it was an effort. I hadn't realized how tightly he was pressing into me from behind until I was able to face him.

I just looked at him. I'm not even sure what my look was. I'm sure my eyes were snapping dragonfire, and if I had been a dragon a good burst of fire would have come from my lips. But they wouldn't open, they were sealed shut by whatever grim shape they'd undertaken. 

My other hand shoved against his abdomen, and I was off.

Back up the stairs, into our designated area. My shoes, thank God, were flats, so I wasn't hindered. It was an effort not to run. I didn't want a scene, I told myself. Even though the next thought on the heels of my anger was that I had gotten exactly what I asked for. I had known exposing cleavage would get attention, and now I was mad at the attention I got? These thoughts made me slow my pace a bit, but I didn't stop until I reached our private restroom.

I didn't see that Tom was behind me until I turned to shut the bathroom door.

He shoved his foot into the space so that I couldn't shut it all the way. 

"Michelle, please!"

I leaned against the door and turned away. His foot stubbornly stayed where it was,  
and he must have leaned down farther to talk into the space. Surprisingly, he didn't push -- much. I could feel a slight, insistent pressure from the door, but not enough to move me.

"Michelle, please, let me in. I just wanna talk. I promise I won't touch you, I promise I'll stay on the other side of the room, but please, let me in. Don't make us do this in front of everybody."

Shit. I drew a deep breath, and stepped away. The door didn't fly open, but it did open, and Tom was inside. He had the door locked behind him in a flash. Thankfully the bathroom was empty.

"Okay, b'fore we start anything," Tom said, turning and holding his hands up and out in a gesture of surrender, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry. I shouldn't have touched you like that. Not without permission. Not without knowing it was okay. It was rude and wrong and I'm an ass. I accept all of that." His face was flush, probably still from the alcohol, and his voice was a bit slurry, but it was slowly clearing up. Apparently a shock to the system was a good way to get sober. Like I didn't already know that.

Dammit all to hell. My breast was still tingling from where he touched me. I reached down and pulled up the fabric, covering as much of myself as I could. What had possessed me? Were wounded pride and jealousy that lethal of a combination? I had more brains than this. But when it came to Tom...rational thought just didn't have the foothold it once did. I had to work on that. I couldn't lose my mind over a guy. I'd seen too many of my friends turn into idiots over something like this.

"But, I gotta ask," Tom continued, stepping a bit closer and his face darkening, "what were you thinking?" One hand, as it was going down, gestured toward my chest, and he looked annoyed. Irritated. And I distinctly felt ashamed. 

"Could you be more specific?" I said in a small voice.

The annoyance grew. "You're practically fallin' out of your dress," he bit out. "You didn't look like that when I picked you up this evening. So what happened?"

I almost couldn't answer. But I mustered. For him I would muster. "I was...I was jealous."

"Of what?"

I shrugged. I felt so stupid now. Sooooo stupid. So incredibly...urg. He was going to dump me. I'd deserve it.

"I came up here to rest, and I overheard some women from our group talking, and it was...I thought they were talking about me. Making some rude comments. Saying something about wondering if you were bored fucking supermodels."

Tom scowled. "They said that?" he sounded horrified. And more sober.

"Well...I heard some parts."

"Did you hear them say your name? Or mine?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck do you know what they were talking about?"

I looked away. Stupid, stupid paranoia. "Well, when I came out, I saw you dancing, and those girls rubbing up against you, and I didn't want to be a jealous girlfriend, and that guy -- I can't remember his name--"

"Alex."

"Whatever. He asked me to dance and I did. We were just dancing."

"With your breasts falling out," Tom reminded me. "Let's back up. How did that even happen?"

"I had the top pinned. So I wouldn't show too much. And then when I heard those girls and what I IMAGINED," I stressed, not without bitterness, "what they said, I just...I went a little nuts. I was stupid, I'm sorry."

Tom turned away, gathering himself. He rubbed his hand along his mouth, pressing his lips. It wasn't a gesture I saw often, but it always spoke to me of being upset. Then, he turned, and those eyes, those blue, blue eyes, were dark with severity. He looked stern, and much more sober. I shrank back a bit more.

"Stupid," he said. "You were stupid. I'm sorry, sweetie, but you don't get to use that excuse. You're not stupid. I've seen you on half a bottle of wine and you don't get stupid. So you were jealous. And you decided to get my attention. And you got it." The face didn't soften, but it did shift to something like astonishment. "When I saw you...I couldn't believe it. And I got a bit pissed. Suddenly my date's breasts are out for everyone to see but me. So, and I admit this, I got territorial. And I came over and..." Then he blushed and stopped.

I almost smirked. Almost. So I did have some power. It was nice to know, but not the time to gloat. I shoved it away.

"And it was wrong," he continued. "I wasn't doing it to punish you, I just...lost my head a bit." He shut his eyes, letting out a breath. The red of his cheeks was gone now, but he seemed sweaty and still a bit discomposed.

I nodded. "I accept your apology," I croaked, and was horrified to hear how my throat was closing. Next, the tears were gathering in my eyes. This had never happened to me before. I was not one to cry in front of others, any others. Tom was the last person on Earth I wanted to cry in front of. "Will you...accept mine?"

"When you mean it," he said, and upon seeing how my face flushed, and my eyes got wet, he finally softened. "Darling, you can't...you can't do that. I know we haven't talked about physical things, but I know you aren't that kind of girl. I knew it from way back when we were eighteen. And then you turn around and flash the entire world? I mean...how would you feel if I suddenly pulled my penis out for everyone to see?"

I couldn't help myself. "You do wear tight pants sometimes," I hiccuped.

He sighed, but didn't get angry. He stepped closer to me, still hesitant to touch me. "Well...we both fucked up."

"I'm sorry," I sighed, desperate not to cry. "I didn't want to ruin your birthday."

"Well, *ruined* is a strong word," he said, much softer, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with a frown, he asked, "Why are you trying so hard not to cry?"

There is a moment when you are in tears when laughter is just a hop to the left. So I laughed. It felt good, relieved the tension in my chest, and this time he did give me a little smile. "I'm not a crier."

"That's not what I'm seeing," he replied, getting closer still. 

I shrugged, uncomfortable. "It's not...something I do unless I'm really pissed."

"Are you still pissed?"

"At myself," I pulled away from the wall, closer to him. All this time, my arms had been tightly crossed in front of me, wrapped as if to hide everything, as if to brace and protect myself. They still held tight, but I wanted less distance. His hands came out, rested lightly on my upper arms, rubbing gently. "You're right, it was wrong. I chose to do something wrong because I wanted your attention. I am not a stupid person. I have no excuse."

He pulled a bit, getting me closer, almost in his arms. "It is okay to cry, you know," he said, very softly. 

"Oh please," I said, rubbing at the tears that wanted to escape. "I've already done my entire gender great harm by being an irrational idiot. Now you want me to make it worse by breaking down into a sobbing mess?"

Tom sighed, shook his head. "It's okay to be vulnerable. If you didn't like how I was dancing with those girls, you could have come down and asked me to come away. It's okay to put yourself out there for me. I'm not going to slap you down or reject you." By now his hands had loosely joined around my waist. "You can trust me, Michelle. You have to trust me. This isn't going to work if you don't trust me."

I looked down. My arms were still tightly crossed, still holding myself away. But my muscles wouldn't relax. "It's hard, Tom," I whispered. "I know we already talked about this, I know you like me the way I am--"

"Then what's the problem?" That annoyed frown was back. "You either believe me or you don't. I can repeat myself as many times as you like, but only if you'll listen. If my words are going to fall on deaf ears," he shook his head, and started to pull back.

I suddenly let go. "No," I said, stepping into him, lowering my arms, but still keeping a grip with one hand to keep my chest covered. I reached and got hold of the waist of his pants, my fingers getting one of his belt loops. But there was a belt in it, so there wasn't much room. "No, you're right. You're right, if I've chosen to believe you then I have to put my faith in you. But you're in high demand, Tom. There are a lot, a LOT of women who want a piece of you."

He nodded. "You trust me, but not them," he clarified. "I get that, but Michelle, you have to realize you don't have to trust them. You only have to trust me. You think I would cheat on you? You think so little of my integrity?"

I shook my head. "I've just proved that I'm capable of being colossally stupid. And we're all human."

He sighed, nodded again. "True enough. But if we don't take any risks, we don't gain anything. You have to take the risk with me, Michelle. You may not realize it, but there are a lot of men in this world who would want you, just like those women want me. I just experienced the exposure that put all those women together in one place. With me, if we keep this going, you're going to be exposed, too, and you're going to fall into the same category. Do you think I want to worry all the time about 'what ifs?' I'd make myself insane."

Same category? "I am nowhere near in the same category as you, Tom."

He scowled. "And that is simply not true. I won't hear any further argument about it. At least not tonight." He pulled a bit, bringing me to his chest. "Is there any way you can close that dress? I won't be able to think straight the rest of the night if you can't."

I glanced to the sink. Luckily, I hadn't thrown the safety pins away. They were sitting where I'd put them. "Yeah."

"All right." He reached up, crooked his finger under my chin. His thumb brushed against my lower lip. "And for the record, you haven't ruined my birthday. If this conversation means that we won't do stupid things like this again, it will have been worth it."

"I'm sorry I disappointed you," I said, meeting his eyes.

He gave me a little smile. "You can make it up to me by not leaving my side for the rest of the night."

I finally smiled. "Okay. After I--"

"Yes, after you...fix that." He couldn't glance down, looking distinctly awkward. I felt the smirk rising again, felt a rush of power. He was *attracted* to me. That did more for me than all the compliments he paid me about my character. Was I really so shallow? But no, I had to make the right choice. I covered myself with one hand, but with the other, reached up for his cheek, and lifted myself up on my toes.

He lowered his mouth to mine, seeing what I wanted. It was a very sweet kiss. An apologetic kiss. A forgiving kiss.

When he left I was able to get the pins back in, almost as neatly as they'd originally been. When I came out, he was dutifully waiting. We smiled at each other, a real smile, and even though it was his birthday, I was the one who made a resolution for the new year.

I was not going to fall into that trap. For him, I had to trust. For him, I had to have faith. I couldn't keep second guessing everything. It didn't matter what anybody else thought. This was new to me, but that didn't mean it had to be bad. It didn't have to be marked by mistake after mistake. I was smart enough, logical enough, rational enough to do the right thing, even if I had to be vulnerable, even if I had to risk him screwing up.

He wasn't going to be perfect. Neither was I. But we could still make good choices, with the other one's best interests at heart. If I wanted that from him, I had to give it. I couldn't wait, I couldn't measure, I couldn't compare. I just had to do it.

I had to leap. And as the saying went, I had to hope to God I could fly.


End file.
